Gravity
by Sine Timore Metu
Summary: John takes care of Sherlock when he has a hangover.


It was the look.

Not a look, of course, because if it was just a look, my stomach wouldn't have dropped, and my annoyance wouldn't have spiked, and I wouldn't have narrowed my eyes and looked back at my computer screen. He notices everything. So of course, he notices this.

"What?" His voice rises at the end, indicating an inquiry, but, of course, not without the ever present undertone of annoyance, as if our roles were switched, and I was the one with all the answers, and he, all the questions. I looked up, over at him, for a half a second, without inclining my head to properly address his words. My mouth was parted slightly, as if preparing to respond, but instead, I wet my lips with a quick flourish of a parched tongue, and returned to the laptops bright, eager, expanse.

"Nothing," My words were too quick to be authentic, and his intense gaze burned into my forehead for a few more seconds. I partially expected another, half hissed 'what?', to which, I would not have justified another glance, but instead, he shook his head. The thought was already, gone, stored away in his 'mind palace'. I returned my attention to the laptop, and my blog entry, which consisted of only a few poorly choreographed sentences, courtesy of Sherlock's interruptions. I parted my mouth, permitting a tiny sigh to escape. I was too distracted to write up a summary of the prior case, in which an apparent murder-suicide turned out to be a clever cover up of a double homicide. Though, obviously not clever enough to fool the highly intellectual, if not socially inept man, standing in front of me, right shoulder angled in my direction. His pale hands were pressed together, much like if he were quietly praying, but anyone who had even the most remote experience with the worlds only 'consulting detective', would recognize that he was not seeking advice from some celestial deity, but thinking. I took a handful of seconds, to picture his face, at present turned away from me, intense, pale eyes looking at a world no other could see, let alone comprehend, gears turning behind that penetrating gaze. I justified another glance at my eccentric flatmate, taking in the way his thumbs hooked beneath his chin, index fingers brushing the tip of his nose, and I felt a blanket of unease settle upon my aching shoulders.

I hadn't slept in over 36 hours, and it showed in the dark half circles nestled beneath my red eyes. I suppressed yet another yawn, and my eyes watered in protest, goading me to rub away the welling tears from the ducts. If I didn't rest soon, I was sure to wake up in the morning with a dead laptop, keyboard keys embossed into my face, and Sherlock, still stuck in his overdeveloped brain.

"You need to get some sleep," My voice slurred slightly in the haste and heavy veil of tiredness, an empty gesture, seeing as Sherlock did what Sherlock wanted, and rarely deviated for any reason, regardless of the request or requester. I assumed this case would be no different. His utter lack of response only increased my anxiety, but I was much too exhausted to care. Slowly, I slipped away, disappearing down into the shadowy depths of of the corridor, the floor soft beneath my weary feet. My door was cracked, and if I had been more awake, it would have elicited a groan of annoyance. Sherlock must have been searching for cigarettes in my room, and chances are, had located the emergency pack in my underwear drawer. I'd hoped the nature of the placement would help ward against Sherlock's addiction, but respect for another's privacy has never been a major concern of his. I would have to confront him about it tomorrow. For now, I gripped the doorknob, pulling it closed behind me, and leaving me in darkness. I tripped over something, probably furniture Sherlock had upturned in his haste, and stubbed my toe on the foot of my bed, before collapsing gracelessly onto the covers. I was out like a light.

I was only hoping for a little kip to recover my strength, but I must have been much more tired than I had realized. When I was at last wrenched from the grip of sleep, sunlight streamed lazily in through the single paned window, but at second glance, the sun was high in the sky, easily past morning. A fleeting glimpse of the clock revealed a shocking revelation; usually a fairly early riser, the digital screen glared at me with an ugly face reading 2:39. I'd overslept. . . and bollocks. . . Sherlock was probably still at it, bloody idiot he is. I scrambled from the bed, causing my leg to groan in protest at the sudden movement, and I grit my teeth, hobbling over to the half open door. The scent that greeted me was a stomach roiling mixture of tobacco smoke, car exhaust, and scotch. It was a rare occasion in which Sherlock indulged in alcohol, but it wasn't hard to imagine the resulting train wreck. Limping down the short corridor, I took a moment to assess the damage.

Stacks of books, formerly sorted Alphabetically by their authors last name, lay in disarray on the floor, or slanted in one of the assorted bookshelves. A lamp lay with a cracked base at my feet, and the floor was only just visible beneath piles of old newspaper clippings, almanacs, and old files, all sorts of weird symbols and doodles marking it as a product of Sherlock's pondering. I swear, his mind was the mystery that God would never solve.

At second glance, his skull was resting on a table, a lit cigarette poking out from between its white grin of death, and a glass with an amber tinged bottom sitting grimly beside it.

The Day-Glo yellow smiley face on the wall stared vacantly at me from its bullet hole blinkers, and what looked-like-blood-but-hopefully-wasn't was smeared on the walls in what appeared to be a Russian proverb. Mrs. Hudson wasn't going to be pleased, but she was probably used to it by now; after all, Sherlock was prone to mindless destruction of other persons property, his living space, not at all an exception.

I passed a bend, and suddenly Sherlock was. . . everywhere. His violin was set haphazardly on the floor. A broken string curled comically above the lovely wooden instrument, the bow, laying across it horizontally, left end slanting up to point accusingly at the sun streaming onto the carpet. That god forsaken hunting cap was tossed carelessly onto a pile of unopened thank you presents from various clients, most of which the consulting detective had deduced were watches or ties, neither of which he was prone to wearing. Ever. Sherlock himself was draped across the couch, in his slim, lanky, glory, forearm raised as if unconsciously blocking the sun. Thick, rich, curly brown hair caught the hues of the sun, burning all sorts of russet and dark, chocolate hazelnut, and for a half second, he almost looked too gracefully resting to awaken. His face was twisted into a sort of half-pout, half-glare, but it was more peaceful than it ever was awake.

I picked up a bottle of expensive applewood scotch I'd been saving for a special someone, raising an eyebrow slightly at the mostly empty contents. Sherlock was a light weight, big time, and this was some strong stuff. Sighing, I crossed my arms, shook my head a little, and went about waking him up. I started by ripping the blanket from his sleep dead hands, and rolled my blue eyes as he issued a violent hiss of protest. He attempted to wrench the cover from my hands, but jerked back as his optic nerves protested in the shape of a sharp cranial ache. A muffled groan came from his surely aching body, as he attempted to curl into himself.

"Oh no y'don't," I muttered, taking a lock of those lovely brown curls, and yanking him to attention. He writhed, eyes closed tightly, like a young, unwilling child roused for school, and growled through clenched teeth.

"Piss off." Jerking his hair away, his hands reached to cover his head, body curling into the fetal position, but I snaked a deft hand around to the nape of his neck, and knotted my fingers in the dark locks, giving them a firm tug. He made no response, simply allowing it.

"Piss off yourself, you need to clean this mess up before Mrs. Hudson returns from Essex, or she'll throw a mardy." I grunted, abandoning his limp body in favour of pulling back the blinds to allow the full wrath of the sun in. When I turned to face him, I found him struggling into a sort of sitting position, squinting maliciously at me well trying to shade his eyes. I crossed my arms, fixing him with the army-patented-don't-piss-on-me-look, but rather than trying to feign shame, he simple yanked the still glowing cigarette from the skulls dead jaws, and took a long drag, eyes rolling back into his head dramatically. I stepped towards him, reached over, and plucked the offending object from his sleep-lax grip, extinguishing the smouldering end in what was left of the expensive scotch. He growled, hands sliding up to clutch his temples. I might have been more sympathetic if his breath didn't reek of my money.

"You were doing so well, too." I muttered, but his only reply was a grunt, as he scrambled rather gracelessly to his feet, in the sort of direction of the kitchen. Roughly, I pulled him back, using his shaky gate to unbalance him, and bringing him crumbling onto the couch, shooting the stubborn detective a severe glance.

"Stop that. . . my head hurts. . ." I might have laughed, if I hadn't found myself in the same situation more than once, and often, without an experienced flatmate willing to fix me up. I pushed him back down as he made a half-arsed attempt to get up again, and sighed.

"Stay where you are. . . I'll get you some pain-killers. . ." He didn't look like he was going anywhere, anyways, but it had to be said as a precaution. Even if he never listened to anything I said, dammit.

Entering the quarters that were established as the kitchen {though Sherlock used it more as 'Experimental Storage'}, I made the mistake of opening the fridge, right before promptly closing it.

"What the hell is in my favourite coffee mug?" I yelled, rather abruptly, before reviewing that question in my mind.

"Never mind, I don't wanna know." Steeling myself, I yanked the door open, reaching into the back to grab a crimson can, and slammed it shut, unable to suppress a shudder. I searched the cupboards for a glass, but per usual, they were mostly bare, Sherlock always much too busy and important to clean them. Mrs. Hudson insisted that she was, in fact, not a housemaid, but from past experience, we both knew she could only watch the dishes pile up so high before doing it herself.

Seeing as they hadn't yet reached that point, I instead, cleaned out one of the many dirty cups laying vacantly in the washer, running warm water over it before drying it off with a tea towel. I opened the can of tomato juice, pouring the contents into the mug, and removed a bottle of generic pain meds, I normally reserved for when my injury played up. I was almost out, and wrote myself a mental reminder to stop by the chemists the next time I went to the store. I briefly wondered why I was doing this for Sherlock, it's not like it didn't serve him right, especially after I'd told him he needed rest. But Mycroft had insisted I watch out for him, and making bad with perhaps the single most powerful man in Britain, was not worth my indignation. Besides, Sherlock's brother, of all people, would know just how much of a selfish prick the brilliant man could be. He must give me some credit for staying this long with his supposedly friendless sibling, and putting up with what entails.

With the glass clenched in my fingers, two small, discoid shaped pills pressed into the creases of my hand, I maneuvered my way through the crowded kitchen, and to the couch, where Sherlock had buried his face into the pillows. All I could see was the back of his head, thick with wild, unruly curls, and a sliver of his pale skin, the blanket pulled tightly around him like a petulant child. My eyebrows knit together for a half moment, and I shot a quick glare at the Man Upstairs before setting the cup and pills down beside him.

"Sherlock, I was supposed to have been at the medical clinic 4 hours ago. Get your bloody arse up and take your damn pills." I ignored his hateful scowl, his arm snaking over the side of the couch blindly. I didn't have time to yell a warning before his careless movement knocked his glass over, and sent the pills scattering. Instincts kicked in, and I dove for the glass, catching it in my hands as Sherlock emitted a roar of frustration. As I struggled to my knees, I banged my head against the side table with a resounding noise, stars exploding in my vision, and I groaned, ears ringing. Slowly, I crawled out from under the hard object, setting the glass down with enough force to slosh its contents onto my hands, where it ran down my arm.

"Damnit!" I yelled, struggling not to dissolve into a fit of cursing. Looking up, I saw that Sherlock had propped himself up with an elbow, peering over his shoulder at me with pale eyes and a smugly curved lip. I opened my mouth to make a cutting remark, when his face twisted into one that I had seen often in my line of work. I barely had time to yell a useless, "Don't you dare," before the contents of my flat mates stomach were expelled violently. Warm, acrid fluid spattered against the arm I had raised in an attempt to block the worst of the vomit, and I hissed in disgust, a sound that would've surely earned me a look if Sherlock hadn't been busy cowering in his acid stained blankets.

A high pitched voice broke over the room. Ms. Hudson must've heard me.

"Sherlock, John, are you alright? Oh my- would you like a ha-?"

"No!" We yelled in simultaneous irritation, and she scurried from the room like a mouse fleeing the broom. Instantaneously, I felt terrible, but it was considerably less then in most situations. I took the moment of silence to reign in my temper and settle upon a logical way to go about cleaning up the mess that was Sherlock. I struggled into a standing position, finding the damage to be considerably less then I had first assumed, which was based mostly on personal experience. It was then that it dawned upon me that he hadn't eaten a damn thing for over two days. All he had to vomit up was stomach acid. I inhaled, regretting it as my nose stung at the rancid scent, and switched to shallow intakes from the mouth. I gazed at my watch ruefully, before sighing and turning my attention back to Sherlock. If I hadn't known better, I would've said he looked ashamed, but more likely he was sulking. As gently and patiently as I could manage at that moment, I tugged him into a standing position, and he allowed me to take him by the wrist and maneuver him towards the bathroom.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Sherlock said nothing, simply nodding.

Once inside, I stripped him of his ruined clothes, peeling away the vomit stained shirt and torn pants. After a moment, I followed suit, and we both were standing bare to our boxers. For a few awkwards seconds, there was simply silence, and I felt almost silly, standing aimlessly, not sure how to continue. If Sherlock had noticed my discomfort, he made no sign of it, simply crossing his arms over the pale expanse of chest, greasy curls falling into his eyes. I took a stolen moment to consider what Lestrade would think of the state of Junior Holmes', before shaking the amusing thought from my head, and back to my vomit doused excuse of a best friend. I found Sherlock had raised his face to fix me with a brooding, impatient stare.

"Well?" His voice was sandpaper rough, but that didn't hide the scathing edge of his voice. As if some spell had been broken, the fog of my mind was pushed away by heat inducing clarity, and I hurriedly pulled the bathroom curtain away, turning the water on. I ignored Sherlock's growl of protest as I pushed him towards the stream of water, backing up a little as he jerked away.

"Let me remove my boxers," He snapped, and I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment at the mistake, averting my gaze as he slipped off the article of clothing and climbed into the shower. I was much too old to be sensitive over such a thing. I was an army doctor, damnit. But in the case of my flat mate, it seemed awfully intimate. Instinct took over however when I saw the way he was going about cleaning himself up. I abandoned my boxers upon the floor, stepping in behind Sherlock. His fingers were scrabbling at his tangled mop of a mane, and I had to batt his hands away before he pulled it out in clumps. I all but clucked in disapproval at the foolish method, forgetting about my situation as I slowly tugged out waterlogged knots and freed twisted strands. I hasn't realized how still Sherlock had gone until I reached over his shoulder to grab shower gel, and the sudden movement caused him to flinch. I chose to ignore it however, pushing away a blush as I poured a sizeable amount into the palm of my hand, and began to spread it through his curls. The tension in Sherlock's shoulders melted into the stream of hot water, soap suds foaming atop his head. He didn't appear to mind it, but just as I began to rinse out the shampoo, he shoved my hands away.

"I can wash myself, John!" I had no idea where the sudden anger had sprung from, but it left me cold inside the pit of my stomach, and I couldn't stop myself from snapping back,

"Well, you were doing a rubbish job of it, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock stilled at my choice of words, and after a moment, responded meekly.

"I'm sorry John," I bit my lip, wishing I could just step out of the bath and stalk away to sulk. However, I still carried the stench of digestive fluids, and couldn't very well go anywhere with such a vile fragrance emitting off my skin and hair.

"It's fine Sherlock," I muttered, even though we both knew I was still frustrated by the tight note of my voice. I said nothing as my tall companion allowed the shower head to wash away the suds cling to his scalp. Despite myself, I couldn't help but reach up and redirect the stream of water to an area he had missed, and Sherlock allowed it, without a word.

I had expected him to get out the moment he was clean, grab his clothes, and disappear into his room to skulk. Instead, he stepped back from the spray, and I had to resist the urge to shoot him a questioning look as I moved forwards. I asked for no explanation, and he offered none. Warmth soaked in to my skin, not having realized that goose bumps had spread across my arms and shoulders. I was used to taking quick, efficient showers, but today, I lingered. It's not like I wasn't already horribly late for work. Might as well enjoy the sensation of hot water droplets spilling onto my skin. I closed my eyes for a moment, and let the liquid trace the surface of my shoulder blades, thin, uneven rivulets teasing the depressions adjacent to my spine, aches wicked away by skinny fingers prodding taut muscles. I'd forgotten how nice a long, hot shower felt.

I didn't know how long I'd been standing there, wasting water, but I slowly became aware of long, nimble digits running over my hair, the scent of shower gel tickling my nose. I winced a little as Sherlock's fingernails scraped across my scalp, but he didn't seem to have noticed. I suspected this was about as gentle as he could get, and after a moment or so of panic, I relaxed, too tired and comfortable to complain, or resist. I hadn't realized how exhausted I was, but I didn't dwell on it, nor the fact that Sherlock, of all people, was working the soap from my hair. If I hadn't been so distracted, I probably would have been horrified by the idea of Mrs. Hudson catching us bathing together.

Narrowly, I heard the water stop, but it seemed far away, and I blinked slowly. When my eyes opened again, I was dry, a slate grey towel slung over my shoulders, and was numbly allowing Sherlock to guide my legs into a pair of boxers, wondering dimly how I'd gotten here. I decided I didn't care.

I closed my eyes, and this time when I looked up, I was in a different place. The wallpaper lining the hallways swam and writhed, occasionally coming into startling focus before slipping back into a mottled headache of shapes, and I was dressed in a shower robe. It was an ugly beige-pink, and I had the sneaking suspicion that it was one of Mrs. Hudson's. I turned my head slowly, bringing Sherlock into view, his face hidden by a mop of familiar black curls, as he stooped over his microscope, peering down at some unknown substance through the eye piece. While he didn't really acknowledge me, his eyes flickered as I shifted beneath a dark brown and blue blanket.

"This Mrs. Hudson's?" My voice was slurred by sleep and residual exhaustion. Sherlock nodded, smirking slightly, but made no other comments, lost in his deductions and that amazing (albeit infuriating) mind of his. I sighed slightly, pulling the blanket more tightly around me. Beginning to doze, I barely noticed Sherlock leaving the room, abandoning a cup of freshly brewed coffee on the desk in favor of pursuing some other interest.

My eyes had grown heavy, when the first lilting tones of Brahm's Lullaby came drifting in through the hallways, melodic reverberations resonating softly against the walls.

I fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock playing his violin.


End file.
